Hey Look, No Crying
by Fire Dancer1
Summary: Valentine's Day pisses Margaret off. Slight suggestion of HM-ness, but not explicitly romantic. Could go either way.


Title: Hey Look, No Crying

Author: Kate/Fire Dancer (kate2130@yahoo.com)

Disclaimer: I only own M*A*S*H in my dreams. Those dreams usually include Hawkeye with minimal clothing…uh. Never mind. I also don't own the title – it's from Frank Sinatra's song of the same name.

Rating: PG

Summary: Valentines' Day pisses Margaret off. Slight suggestion of H/M-ness, but nothing too explicitly romantic, and it could go either way.

* * *

As Margaret approaches the Officers' Club, she can hear Father Mulcahy banging away on the piano at some unidentifiable tune. She can hear laughter – raucous, drunken laughter, loud voices, off-key singing. Sighing wearily, she almost turns back towards her tent, except at that moment the door to the OC opens, spilling more sound out into the cold February night. "Who am I kidding?" she mutters, exasperated, and stops mid-turn to enter the club.

  
She squints against the glare of lights that really aren't all that bright, but are brilliant compared to the night outside and compared to the unthreatening dimness of post-op, where she's just spent the past four hours. Pushing through a mass of dancing couples, she fleetingly wonders why it's so crowded, but the thought leaves her mind as quickly as it had come. She sinks into a barstool, as much as anyone can sink into one, and nods at Igor. "Scotch," she indicates, rubbing the back of her neck ineffectively.

  
As she waits, she picks absently at a garish decoration hanging on the counter. A red heart, cupid's arrow through it, adorned with lace and something that might have resembled feathers at one time. Lifting her head, she realizes that the entire place is decked out in similar fashion, and she remembers why there are so many people here tonight. Valentine's Day.

  
Igor slides the scotch across the counter and Margaret grasps the glass almost violently. Desperately, like one would grasp a talisman in times of crisis. Valentine's Day. She'd just spent four hours with kids who would never see another one, whose sweethearts would get them back home in a flag-draped box, and now Margaret finds herself increasingly angry and drinking increasingly fast. She raises her empty glass towards Igor. "Another," she snaps.

  
Two drinks turn into three, then four, and she gives up trying to count and just lets the sounds of the party wash over her, a soothing balm when mixed with alcohol sliding down her throat. Gazing across the dance floor, she's almost decided to get up and find a partner when a tall man slides into her view, a young brunette giggling behind him. Margaret squints up at him, then smiles. "Hawk…" she mumbles, wondering absently why she's calling him the shortened nickname. "You should try the scotch." There's a small part of her that is chiding herself for her slurred voice, but she can't be bothered to figure that one out just now.

  
He grins. "Looks like you did that for the both of us." He lifts his own martini glass. "Gotta stick with the old standby, myself." The brunette has giggled her way off to another dance partner, and Hawkeye holds out his hand. "Care to dance, Major?"

  
She places her hand in his, letting him pull her off the stool. "I might step on your feet," she warns, but she has no time to even contemplate that possibility as he takes her whirling across the dance floor. Father Mulcahy's music is fast, too fast for some people, apparently, and he finally acquiesces and plays something slow. They're dancing much too close now, the type of dancing that slow songs lend themselves to, and Margaret pulls back, leaning so she can see his face. "I hate Valentine's Day," she frowns.

  
Hawkeye raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips. "I do too," he admits simply, and in a flourish not fitting for the song, dips her backwards, so low she almost touches the floor.

  
She is upside down, gazing into his grinning face, and he is showing no signs of letting her return to an upright position. Her head is spinning, the music and dancers and colors and smells all swirling around her, and she stumbles. A small stutter step, but it's enough to make him stumble too. They struggle for a moment, then right themselves without making too much of a scene, pulling apart awkwardly. The smile that was tugging at Hawkeye's lips is now tugging at Margaret's, and suddenly she throws her head back and laughs. He joins her, and they laugh until the tears start rolling down their cheeks, without really even knowing why.

  
Later, the next morning, Margaret's details of the previous night are predictably sketchy. But she remembers laughing. What she cannot remember is the last time she's laughed without the aid of alcohol or Hawkeye or dancing or all three.


End file.
